


Picking up the punchlines

by belmanoir



Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Bodie trying to work on his racism, Coming Out, First Time, Happy Ending, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-28
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:40:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,471
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27764626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/belmanoir/pseuds/belmanoir
Summary: Bodie likes Tommy. He does. He just…didn’t realize when he got himself stabbed that he was agreeing to serve as co-guardian-for-nurture to the principal eyewitness.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27





	Picking up the punchlines

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/gifts).



> Happy birthday, Gwyn!!! I hope you like it.

Bodie likes Tommy. He does. He just…didn’t realize when he got himself stabbed that he was agreeing to serve as co-guardian-for-nurture to the principal eyewitness. 

He didn’t expect Doyle to be so excited about co-guardianship, either. He didn’t realize his partner wanted a wife and kids so badly. Just bloody fantastic. A whole new thing to pointlessly stew about in the wee hours of the morning on stakeout.

In order from least depressing to most, Bodie would rank his stakeout worries as follows:

5\. Is he going to get shot?  
4\. Is Doyle going to get shot?  
3\. What if those bags under his eyes are here for good this time?  
2\. Is his hairline receding or does the rearview mirror just make it look that way? 

…Is that cold? Should he move Doyle getting shot higher up the list? 

Nah. He’s not ranking how bad the stuff would be if it happened, just how much it depresses him on stakeout, and he mostly manages not to think about Doyle getting shot. _Jog on, ooh what’s that shiny thing over there_ —oh, right, it’s his current most depressing stakeout worry:

1\. Is Doyle going to “forget” to use a condom, get all excited about The Miracle Of Life, buy a place in the suburbs, quit the force to read about prenatal vitamins full-time, and ask Bodie to be his baby’s godfather?

Five minutes into an internal debate over whether at least Doyle would be willing to name the poor little blighter “Bodie” instead of saddling it with “William”—or God forbid, “Wilma,” because he really wouldn’t put anything past Ray Doyle and the sort of bird he might accidentally-on-purpose knock up. Willa wouldn’t be _so_ awful for a girl, but maybe he could sell Doyle on Boudicca if he made it sound real feminist—

 _Anyway,_ five minutes into that whole uplifting mental scenario, Bodie manages to drag himself back to his original grievance, which is how damn pleased Doyle seems to be by his new self-imposed responsibility. 

Bodie starts a new list, headed _Feeble Excuses Doyle’s Given Recently For Why He Can’t Go Down The Pub Saturday._

1\. “I promised Tommy I’d take him to buy a real belt.”  
2\. “I promised Tommy I’d take him to buy football cleats.”  
3\. “I promised Tommy I’d introduce him to Dr. Mahoney. I told you how the kid looked after me when I got worked over, yeah? He could be a doctor if he wanted, no question.”  
4\. “I promised Tommy I’d help plant a community garden by the water tower with the seeds my food co-op gave us.”  
5\. “I’m getting up early to drive Tommy and his friend, what’s his name, Johnny? Anyway I said I’d drive them out of town. Get some fresh air, maybe go on the river a bit.” 

Of course that list is just the bald and unconvincing narrative. Bodie’s stripped it of all the corroborative detail Doyle dispenses with such a free hand when it comes to Tommy—usually finishing up with “Should be fun, or least not actually fatal. You should come.”

As if he knows, despite all the artistic verisimilitude Bodie’s being laying down himself, that Bodie doesn’t actually have anything better to do on a Saturday than watch Ray Doyle get pushed out of a punt by a couple of rowdy kids, and come up scolding and trying not to laugh and looking like a drowned rat, if Michelangelo had sculpted a drowned rat on a high-libido day.

Does Doyle feel sorry for him? 

Does Tommy?

It’s not that Bodie doesn’t like Tommy. He does. Tommy’s a great kid—and actually funny, unlike Doyle most of the time. He’s got a big soft heart but he’s no sap, either. From the sound of it, the kid showed more nerve that night Doyle deputized him than most men ever muster up in the course of a whole pitiful lifetime. Tommy’s actually—

_Tommy’s actually kind of half like Doyle and half like me. Like—if we had a kid._

Bodie’s so mortified by _that_ anatomically impossible flight of fancy that he slams out of the car and goes for fish and chips. He wishes he didn’t have to go back, but it _is_ a stakeout and while the odds are against anyone actually getting shot tonight, it’s not off the table. 

So he eats his fish and chips in the car, but he makes sure to grind fish-grease into Doyle’s upholstery. Given how much time he spends in Doyle’s car, it’s cutting off his nose to spite his face, but hey, that’s not exactly out of character, is it?

* * *

Tommy’s football matches might qualify as torture under international law. 

Oh, the football’s fine. But there are two chief pleasures to a kiddy football match, and Doyle’s managed to ruin both of them without half trying:

1\. Picking up mums

…Which might have been a tricky proposition anyway since some of the women probably aren’t looking to get involved with a white guy. 

That, Bodie could have worked around. But now _none_ of them will look at him, because the first match he came to, one of the mums asked how he knew Doyle, and Doyle said, “He’s my partner,” as if _Hello everybody, we’re the fuzz!_ was going to make for a convivial atmosphere.

So Bodie kicked him, and then instead of adding _business partners_ like anyone with any goddamned sense, Doyle—allegedly an undercover detective—blushed and said, “I mean, we’re friends.”

“But we’ve started doing some business together.” Bodie stepped neatly between her and Doyle and put as much wattage into his smile as he could. “Can always use a little extra cash for taking someone special out on the town.”

She did look a little dazzled. Bodie thinks he could have carried it off if Doyle hadn’t blushed. But mostly, she looked like a Nosy Parker. 

So now any woman he tries to chat up either freezes him out, or thinks he wants to be Best Girlfriends, or gives him the evil eye for running around on Saint Ray like the trash he is. _Be grateful you married up, why can’t you?_

Bodie just hopes no one is giving Tommy any shit about his gay white uncles or dads or parole officers or whatever the hell Tommy tells people they are. He privately suspects Tommy and his pal Johnny might not be Britain’s Most Heterosexual Mates, themselves. 

He’s caught Tommy glancing between him and Doyle a few times, as if maybe he’s wondering— _Are people just talking out their arses, or is this a real thing? Is it something I can have when I’m all grown up?_ Bodie wishes he had a more cheerful answer for the kid.

He’s not sure if Doyle’s noticed any of it. He prays Doyle hasn’t—or he would do if he prayed. He especially prays that Doyle hasn’t noticed that Bodie doesn’t entirely hate it. That he’s willing to play along ever so slightly, since he doesn’t have a choice anyway.

That it feels nice, sometimes, to have people think Doyle would want to be with him.

And out of nowhere, he has to duck into the toilets and rub at his eyes for a couple minutes. He’d like to think it’s just hay fever. Who decided having a bunch of kids kick up a pea-souper of grass-seed was a bright idea for a Saturday afternoon, anyway? God, if only they were at a normal—

 _Not_ **_normal_** , he corrects himself, **_white._** _Not the same thing, arsehole._ He raps his own knuckles on the edge of the door hard enough to really fucking hurt, trying to make the idea stick. Trying to _learn_ something for once in his life. 

But if only they were at a white football match, Bodie could just pick a fight with one of the dads on the other team right now and _God_ getting his face smashed in would be a blessed relief.

He gets back out there just in time to see the ref call a foul against Tommy for absolutely nothing, the other kid tripping over his own fucking feet in Tommy’s general vicinity. 

Which brings Bodie to the second chief pleasure of kiddy football matches, which Doyle has also ruined:

2\. Yelling at the ref.

“Oi, get your eyes checked!” Bodie starts to shout, and somehow Doyle appears out of thin air to put him in a chokehold. He doesn’t get anything out past _Oi!_

When the ref glances over, Doyle gives him a broad smile and waves his free hand. “For fuck’s sake, Bodie,” he mutters. “Don’t make Tommy sorry he let us come.” 

_Don’t make Tommy sorry, or don’t make_ you _sorry?_ “Yeah, I’m sure Tommy loves the other team being given a penalty kick when he didn’t do anything,” he mutters resentfully back when Doyle eases up the pressure of his elbow. “Maybe he’d like to know someone has his back.”

Now that the ref’s not looking, Doyle’s willing to glare at the guy. “Look, I know it’s not fair. But Tommy does know we’ve got his back. We’ve got his back by not making a scene in front of all his mates. We’ll take him and Johnny for ice cream after, and you can call the ref all the names you want.” He pauses. “As long as they’re fit to print.”

Bodie grits his teeth. _I’m not going to use a slur to Tommy, how much of a bastard do you think I am?_ But if Doyle does think he’s that much of a bastard—well, why shouldn’t he? 

Bodie knows, even if he’ll never admit it out loud, that Doyle’s had his back more than he deserves. He hasn’t forgotten Doyle defending him to Mr. Zadie, and waiting until they were in the car to give him hell.

That’s how it is when they go anywhere: politely make believe Bodie’s not a disappointment while people are watching, then privately let him know the truth the minute they’re out the door. Who the fuck does Doyle think he is, anyway? He’s not so posh or educated either when you get right down to it, art classes and organic bloody tomatoes notwithstanding.

Bodie wonders again if Doyle knows the other football parents think they’re a couple. Is Doyle embarrassed that people think he’s with somebody like Bodie?

And what the hell is it about this crummy football pitch that makes Bodie feel like such a loser, anyway? _Fake it till you make it,_ that’s always been his motto. It’s gotten him pretty damn far, so what’s it gonna take for him to feel like he’s made it, finally?

* * *

“Want to get a pint?” Bodie asks as they leave work on Friday, already braced for some explanation about how Doyle has to get fourteen hours of sleep tonight because he’s taking Tommy to the opera in the morning and—

“Not tonight,” Doyle says shortly.

Bodie pretends not to notice his tone, but inwardly he can feel himself tensing. “All right.”

“I need to talk to you,” Doyle raps out, not making eye contact. A drink goes from mildly desirable to the Holy Grail. 

Bodie gives Doyle the once-over, and realizes he isn’t _just_ pissed off. Rubbing his right knuckles into his left palm like that is Doyle’s version of wringing his hands. So how pissed off would Doyle have to be, before chewing Bodie out about it was serious enough to make him nervous? 

What if he isn’t pissed off at all? Is he retiring? Is he _sick?_

“In private?” Bodie asks quietly.

Doyle gives a tight nod.

“My place or yours?”

Doyle hesitates. “Your place. I’ll meet you there.”

Setting up a quick getaway. “All right, but you’d better bring a hostess gift,” Bodie says lightly.

Doyle doesn’t smile. Fuck, what if he’s sick? Organic food can’t actually keep you from getting cancer, whatever Doyle likes to pretend. 

But there’s no use Bodie working himself into a lather before he knows anything. He drives like a demon on the way home, so he can down his first drink before Doyle shows up. Maybe not the brightest idea, but he can feel the muscles in his neck easing up and that’s got to be a plus.

Doyle takes the drink Bodie offers him and says thanks, even though he only takes one sip and then puts the glass down on the table and forgets all about it. 

Bodie reminds himself that being polite isn’t necessarily the same as thinking you’re better than everybody else. “You said you wanted to talk,” he prompts finally. “So talk.”

“Yeah, okay.” Doyle runs a hand through his hair, which already looks bad enough without that.

Fuck, Bodie’s a bad liar sometimes.

“Listen,” Doyle says aggressively, “I’m bisexual, all right?”

Bodie opens his mouth, and all he can hear is his horrible English teacher the year he left school: _Don’t say what, William, say pardon._ He doesn’t manage to say anything. Shouldn’t have had that drink. Should have maybe eaten something with it.

Doyle scowls harder. “Say whatever the hell you want to me, all right? Get it out of your system. I can take it. But if you say one goddamn _word_ to Tommy, you and me are going to have a real problem, got that?”

Ah. The chain of events becomes clear. Doyle has finally noticed Tommy and Johnny, or maybe Tommy told him, and Doyle thinks that Bodie…he thinks Bodie is going to…

 _Nobody to blame but yourself,_ Bodie tells himself for what feels like the ten millionth time this year alone. He tries to remember what, if anything, he might have said about The Homosexuals while trying to throw Doyle and Cowley off the scent.

Anything he says _now_ that isn’t _So am I_ is going to make it more and more and ever more impossible to say _So am I_ later. At least, not without looking about as feeble as Joan Fontaine admitting she shoved a broken Royal Doulton down the back of a drawer. But can he actually say it? Does he have the guts? 

He can feel sweat breaking out on his forehead as he splashes another couple fingers of whisky into his glass. 

“Yeah,” Doyle mutters. “All right then. Shall I come round again tomorrow so you can get your potshots in once the initial shock’s worn off?”

“Ray. For fuck’s sake. I’m not going to…” _I love you,_ his brain supplies, and his whole body flushes bright red. “I really shouldn’t have had that drink. Either drink. I…”

Doyle scrubs at his face, shoulders slumping. “I just—God, I didn’t want to tell you. I just want everything to stay normal. But I never felt like such a hypocrite in my life as I did trying to look Tommy in the eye and tell him he can be whoever he wants, that he’s perfect just the way he is, when I…” Doyle drops into a kitchen chair and gulps down some of his own drink after all. “I love that kid, Bodie,” he says. “And I—hell, I don’t know, maybe I should have let you yell at the ref for him. I just want to have his back. Really have it. So please, whatever you actually think, don’t say it where he can hear you, okay? For me.”

Doyle’s shoulder is right there. Bodie knows exactly how it will feel if he puts his hand on it, because he’s done it several thousand times at least. But his arm feels too heavy to lift. “I won’t. Listen, I…” 

How can he make this sound casual? Make it sound like something other than _I want to kiss you into next week?_

Or can he say that?

Bodie desperately tries to think back, to see if he can remember any clues for how Doyle might take it. Turns out Bodie saw, but he didn’t observe, because all he’s got are sensory impressions: the heat from Doyle’s body when he stands close enough to touch. Doyle’s fingers curled around his wrist. Doyle’s hair brushing his ear. Doyle’s low voice. The crinkles at the corner of Doyle’s eyes. 

All that—it’s how _he_ felt. Nothing left to tell him Doyle’s side of it.

Doyle folds his arms on the table, and rests his forehead on them. He still trusts Bodie enough to show him the nape of his neck, anyway. Soft skin and taut muscles, breakable and sturdy. Would that first knob of his backbone taste sweet or salty if Bodie put his mouth on it?

“Listen,” Bodie starts again—and again all his brain will give him are things he can’t possibly say: _You’re perfect,_ and _I don’t want everything to stay normal_ and _If I suck on your vertebra, will we still be partners after?_

“I’m listening.” Doyle sounds as tired as he looks. “Anyone ever tell you dead air is bad for radio?”

All right. He can do this. He just has to stop thinking and _do_ it, like jumping off a roof or tackling somebody or getting stabbed. He closes his eyes, remembers the knife going in. It wasn’t so bad, was it? 

He opens his mouth and shuts off his brain. “I’m bent too.”

“ _What?_ ”

That could have been worse. He opens his eyes, grinning. “Don’t say what, Raymond, say pardon.”

Doyle sits up, turns around, stares at him. Sticks a finger in his ear and wiggles it comically, like he must have misheard. 

Bodie slouches against his kitchen counter, feeling better than he has in a while. “Yeah,” he says. “Way more bent than you, probably. I mean, how many men have you actually slept with? Two? Three? One if you count jerking off to Paul Newman?”

“Ah, go fuck yourself.”

Bodie raises his eyebrows.

Doyle’s ears turn red. Slowly, so does the rest of his face. He doesn’t say anything.

Neither of them say anything. 

Doyle stands up—but he stays a little hunched, hands deep in his pockets. “Paul Newman’s not really my type,” he offers at last. 

“Oh, come off it. Paul Newman is everybody’s type. Cowley would bend over for Paul Newman before you can say ‘Big Daddy’.”

Doyle laughs and scrunches up his face. “I could have lived happily my whole life without that image, thanks.”

“I’m here to help.”

“Thanks,” Doyle says again, quietly. “I—you didn’t have to—thanks. You’re a good friend.”

“I’ve got your back,” Bodie says, trying not to listen to himself so he doesn’t get too embarrassed and crack some tasteless joke halfway through. “And Tommy’s, for the record.”

Doyle laughs again. “Have you noticed that everyone in his football league thinks we’re an item?”

“Because _you_ told them we’re partners, DC Smooth Operator.” 

“Yeah. Sorry about that. It was an accident.”

Bodie shrugs. “I just wish it wasn’t giving people the wrong idea about my personal standards.”

Doyle chuckles. “Next time I’ll say you and Paul Newman are partners.”

“Now you’re getting it.” He makes a show of imagining it, staring into the middle distance with a dopey smile. “Wonder what that’s like, having a partner who can act.”

Doyle shoves him.

Is it better to take the rest of the plunge now Bodie’s already halfway down, or to let things go back to normal and resign himself to never saying anything? It’s got to be one or the other, because he flat-out refuses to turn every stakeout from now on into thirteen hours of _Should I say something?_ and _Should I do something?_ and _Is it warm in this car, or is it just me? Probably just me. Probably every fucking thing is just me._

What if it’s not just him? “You’re Mrs. de Winter now, motherfucker,” he mutters under his breath. “Grow a pair.”

Doyle squints at him. “What did you say?” 

“Not a bleeding thing, as it happens.” _Come on, Bodie. Last chance._ But maybe he shouldn’t push his luck.

Doyle sighs. “This is definitely pushing my luck. But I guess I didn’t take this job for the quiet.”

Bodie freezes.

Doyle meets his gaze. “Ask me who my type is.”

“Don’t have to, ’cause I already know it’s Paul Newman. You can’t kid a kidder.”

Doyle shakes his head, not smiling. “Go on. Ask me.”

Bodie’s glass is empty. He swallows to get his dry throat working, then catches himself licking his lower lip. “Steve McQueen?”

Doyle’s mouth quirks up. “Maybe sort of.” He hesitates—sucks in that lifted corner of his mouth and chews it.

Bodie can’t breathe, but he makes himself step a little closer. Half an inch, maybe. “Sort of? Steve McQueen? You _sure_ you like blokes?”

Doyle laughs. “I'm pretty fucking sure, yeah,” he says, and kisses him.


End file.
